Hare, spurred by the possibilities in the half-crazed girl's speech, cast caution to the winds and dashed forward into the glade. Naab's heavy steps thudded behind him.
In the corner of the porch scared and stupefied children huddled in a heap. George and Billy bent over Dave, who sat white-faced against the steps. Blood oozed through the fingers pressed to his breast. Zeke was trying to calm the women.
“My God! Dave!” cried Hare. “You're not hard hit? Don't say it!”
“Hard hit—Jack—old fellow,” replied Dave, with a pale smile. His face was white and clammy.
August Naab looked once at him and groaned, “My son! My son!”
“Dad—I got Chance and Culver—there they lie in the road—not bungled, either!”
Hare saw the inert forms of two men lying near the gate; one rested on his face, arm outstretched with a Colt gripped in the stiff hand; the other lay on his back, his spurs deep in the ground, as if driven there in his last convulsion.
August Naab and Zeke carried the injured man into the house. The women and children followed, and Hare, with Billy and George, entered last.
“Dad—I'm shot clean through—low down,” said Dave, as they laid him on a couch. “It's just as well I—as any one—somebody had to—start this fight.”
Naab got the children and the girls out of the room. The women were silent now, except Dave's wife, who clung to him with low moans. He smiled upon all with a quick intent smile, then he held out a hand to Hare.